


Clear Divides

by jabberish



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: (but also they're robots with excellent healthcare), Idiots in Love, Pre-Relationship, Prowl's Difficulty with Emotions, Serious Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:21:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28486767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jabberish/pseuds/jabberish
Summary: Jazz is known to be reckless and flighty, and worrying about that is useless. Prowl shouldn’t worry. Worrying is a waste of time and indicates poor judgment. He should stop worrying.
Relationships: (Pre), Jazz/Prowl (Transformers)
Comments: 33
Kudos: 118
Collections: Secret Solenoid '20-'21





	Clear Divides

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Peruse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Peruse/gifts).



> Chag Sameach and Good 2021, Peruse! And happy... Solenoid? Thank you for having such a fun prompt-list, I hope you enjoy as much as I enjoyed writing this c:

Despite the widespread rumors, Prowl does not actually lack personal and emotional connections with his coworkers, nor does he make any particular effort to discourage them. He is simply extremely careful not to let personal opinions color his professional decisions.

It is important, vitally important both to tactical success and to his principles, that he does not let whether he _likes_ or _dislikes_ someone affect how he manages their official treatment. When a field operative is marked in intake as ‘damaged to disorientation’ and escapes from medical observation, he calls a response based on the operative’s skill and risk profile, and does not add in useless personal annotations as if his relationship with the operative is relevant.

Even if the operative is Jazz. Jazz is not an exception. 

Jazz cannot be an exception. Or, rather, Jazz is an _exceptionally_ important case for establishing a clear divide between the personal and professional.

Early on, this meant carefully putting aside his impression of a careless, obnoxious mech who should not be trusted with a pet, let alone a high-stakes infiltration. If Prowl had assigned Jazz guided by his _feelings_ rather than by Jazz’s stellar performance statistics, mission success would have decreased significantly and more people would have died. They cannot afford anything other than clear divides.

With time, exposure, and further analysis, this same philosophy now means that Prowl carefully puts aside his personal enjoyment of Jazz’s company, his strategically irrelevant desire for Jazz to be safe and nearby. Jazz is, Jazz has continually proven himself to be the best choice for high-risk field work and Prowl cannot even put in special effort to make better plans for Jazz’s missions, because Prowl’s plans and planning attention are already fully optimized. 

Impartial optimization is not only the best way to keep Jazz—everyone—safe in the long term, it is also the only way to _respect_ Jazz’s career decisions and personal commitment to risking himself for the greater good. Even when the risks do not go well. Even when Prowl designs and assigns a mission that ends with Jazz dragged back to base and straight into medbay, semiconscious, one teammate carrying him, another stumbling along to maintain field-rigged spark support and catch pieces as they fall off.

::What I want to know is how he got the medbay vent peeled up with only three fingers,:: Inferno says.

He uses his teeth, Prowl is fairly sure. ::Classified,:: Prowl says. ::But assume he is able to access the entire range of the ductwork.:: (“Actually, it’s kinda easier gettin’ through a vent with only one arm, long as it’s gone through to the shoulder!”)

::If he is confused, he will likely shelter in the vents in the areas I have indicated,:: Prowl says. The areas indicated are areas Prowl knows Jazz considers particularly safe, fun, or useful, and if he knows this from off-shift conversation, that does not make the information less true. ::Avoid engagement if you think you’ve found him. He will not appreciate being cornered.::

::The likeliness markers are... mostly marked classified?:: Hound asks, pinging his location to the general search party. ::Is that on purpose?::

::That is on purpose,:: Prowl confirms. Prowl, Optimus, and Red Alert have a more detailed search map than the rest of the team. Jazz works very hard to avoid keeping to a predictable routine or favored locations. Prowl is protecting the security of a high-value agent. Protecting the privacy and peace of mind of a friend who has shared information in confidence would not (on its own) be enough to conceal the information.

::I will search by south storage,:: Prowl says. The crawlspace along the middle section there is the second-most-recent in Jazz’s series of favorite bolt holes. Prowl restocked the medkit there recently, and if Jazz remembers that, he may be attempting self-repair.

::You already searched by south storage,:: Red Alert says. He switches to the officer’s channel to ask, ::Did you forget? Did you see a sign there? Is he communicating with you?::

::Only superficially,:: Prowl says. The entire map has already been searched superficially. ::I remember. I do not have any additional information. I am just double-checking.:: 

Jazz’s processor is in an unknown state, and Prowl hopes that if he is coherent enough to evade detection, he is also coherent enough to stay on base, to stay out of unstable hiding places, to remember that he should not attack anyone on base and attempt to fight his way out. (Prowl knows, was told one sleepless dark cycle, that that last scenario is a particular nightmare of Jazz’s.)

::You’re not on secondary checking detail. Stop,:: Red Alert says, and his location ping indicates that he is moving to intercept Prowl. ::You’re already a joor overdue for mandatory rest.::

Prowl is always a joor overdue for mandatory rest and he fails to see how that is any of Red Alert’s business. He turns off his location ping and switches to take a different route. ::Then I am off-duty and choosing to spend my leisure time loitering in south storage,:: he snaps back.

::Prowl, how long have you been on shift?:: Optimus asks, and he sounds concerned, as if Prowl’s habitual overtime qualifies for interest when they have an officer missing and potentially _dying_. (If Jazz narrowly survives Prowl’s mission only to die now, Prowl will be—be, he—he will be _furious._ )

::I am fine,:: Prowl says, and hastens around a corner—to where Mirage stands, draped elegantly across the doorway Prowl needs to go though.

“He isn’t in his cubby in south storage,” Mirage says. “And,” he adds, stretching to show off scorching along his arm and side, presumably from the fire trap set in that bolthole, “he will kill me if I let you get hurt in one of his traps.” Prowl knew about the trap, he would have been fine, it is not even a lethal trap.

::Prowl. When did you last fuel?:: Ratchet asks, and Prowl frowns, a twist of guilt threading into his building irritation. Ratchet has much greater concerns than Prowl’s fuel intake, and Prowl knows he is meant to take responsibility for his own well-being, especially when Jazz is off on a mission.

::You know I don’t know,:: he tells Ratchet curtly, and signs off the officer channel. Prowl nods at Mirage and turns to head for Jazz’s most recent favorite bolthole, up by the comms lab.

Mirage moves startlingly fast, cutting him off. “Not to mention,” Mirage says, “if I let him hurt you. You have better things to do than corner Jazz right now.”

Prowl’s optics narrow. “Stand down,” he commands.

Mirage stands his ground, shifts his weight fractionally so that Prowl is unexpectedly and unwillingly reminded of Jazz, balancing easily into a stance that suggests complete physical control of the space around him. “You are off-duty, Prowl,” Mirage says. He tilts his head slightly. “We’ll find him. You know the best thing you can do right now is get some rest.”

Prowl feels his frown intensifying, because he will hardly be able to _rest_ right now, and, and, because Mirage is correct. Prowl’s assistance was primarily valuable in setting up search coordination and the best thing he can do right now, both as an administrator 2.3 joors past the mandatory shift length cap, and as a concerned friend, is to leave.

Jazz was stable. Ratchet would not have stopped working on him, did not stop working on him until he was out of acute danger. He will not gutter due to insufficient medical attention.

Wings drooping down from the aggressive set they have somehow ended up in, Prowl nods at Mirage. “Very well,” he says. He also signs back onto the channel, just for a moment. ::Apologies. I am leaving now.:: He should have left half a joor ago.

Jazz has a habit, or, no, a character, a—something about Jazz has a way of disturbing Prowl’s careful divides and separations. Jazz is a good agent and a good friend, and somehow something more complicated than the combination of that. 

Jazz was stable. He will not gutter.

Prowl is not going to be able to rest, is never really able to rest well while Jazz is injured, so he heads back to his office, where he can review exactly what about his plan led to Jazz coming back minus 20% of his mass and plus a dozen drives of data that Prowl had wanted but had descoped out of possible mission outcome. (He would have preferred Jazz intact, without the extra data, and if that is motivationally a _personal_ preference, it is also at least partially a _strategic_ one because the evident fact of the matter is that Prowl does not perform at his best when Jazz is not around, when Jazz’s easy companionship and stabilizing presence are not only removed but at risk of total _loss_ and there may be an argument for—)

Jazz matters, in ways Prowl was not prepared for. He matters as an agent, separately from how he matters as a friend and an individual, and again separately from the fact that Prowl happens to find him at once fascinating and soothing, from the complication that Prowl happens to behave differently depending on Jazz, in a way that is Jazz’s doing but cannot be made Jazz’s responsibility.

Jazz was stable. He will live.

Prowl functions well with a clear divide between the personal and professional. Jazz is a challenge, certainly. Prowl is still attempting to understand and navigate the additional division he has become aware is necessary, between the personal and the—the practical, the, the selfish, between the appreciation Prowl holds for Jazz and the reliance on—no, the _desire_ for a, for an _accessibility_ with Jazz. It is neither fair nor practical to _need_ Jazz, even if Prowl is coming to find that without Jazz, he is... less.

Jazz was stable. He will be fine.

The hall is dark, his team well into off-shift time when Prowl keys into his office. If, as Prowl suspects, he will be unable to focus on work, at least there will be no witnesses. Except for Jazz, who is in Prowl’s office.

Jazz is in Prowl’s office. 

Jazz is in Prowl’s office, sitting in the spare chair with one pede kicked up on Prowl’s desk, two cubes of energon on the table. His other leg tapers to protoform somewhere below the knee, is crossed and braced on his good (better) leg, and his left arm is gone through to the shoulder, making it a relatively easy motion for Jazz to twist and flash a sunny smile at Prowl.

“Prowler!” Jazz greets, while Prowl starts to throw the datapad he is holding at Jazz’s _stupid face_ in pure frustration, then stumbles his grip to keep a hold out of medical concern—Jazz’s visor is off, he is unlikely to be able to dodge a thrown datapad.

“Jazz,” Prowl responds evenly, and he throws the datapad he is holding at Jazz—Jazz’s visor is off, and the datapad smacks loudly against his stupid face before Jazz catches it on the bounce and sets it down on Prowl’s side of the desk. 

::I have found Jazz,:: Prowl informs the channel, stepping in to check for leaks, sparks, tremors, anything, anything. “Why?” he asks Jazz.

Jazz uncrosses his legs, sits up and spreads his arms—spreads his arm and general remaining chassis in a put-upon shrug under Prowl’s inspection. “You’re late for your cube,” he says. 

For his—Jazz does not like predictable routines, but Prowl does, and when Jazz is on base he arrives at Prowl’s office very predictably, with two cubes of energon. One such predictable arrival would have been 5 breems after Jazz was reported missing from medbay.

::How does he look?:: Ratchet asks. ::Any sparking, static in his visor, or stumbling in his speech?::

::No sparking, he isn’t wearing his visor, and his speech seems fine, if potentially _glitched_.:: Prowl exvents heavily and very slowly, watching Jazz’s unflickering smile. “Do not leave medbay before you are released. That was irresponsible.”

::Visor off is good, slagger’s supposed to let that optic rest,:: Ratchet says. ::Glitched how?::

“Aw, but I had to check in on ya! You don’t rest or fuel right when I ain’t around—you know I worry, Prowler!” Jazz says, like he knows the _meaning_ of the word _worry_.

::He has broken into my office and is attempting to share a meal with me.:: Prowl keeps a calm tone with Ratchet, filtering out the cold anger he is glaring into Jazz. “I did not know where you _were,”_ he says. “If your goal was my good health, I assure you that the stress from this _joke_ did far more damage than a missed meal.”

::Ah,:: Ratchet says, and then there is a pause, the edges of the gap roughened with what sounds suspiciously like smothered laughter. ::Sorry Prowl, that glitch is chronic and unresponsive to treatment. I’ll come by for him in 20. Make sure he takes his supplements.::

“Hey, hey,” Jazz says, hopping with a few creative braces against furniture to stand from his chair and sit up on the desk, “it is funny as frag, but this ain’t a—this ain’t _just_ a _joke_ , ‘kay?”

Prowl pings acknowledgement and collects a packet of Jazz’s post-injury supplements from a side cabinet. “Then, again, _why?”_

“Because,” Jazz says from _too close_ behind him, and Prowl whirls to find Jazz there, in his space, pede-less leg braced casually against Prowl for balance as Jazz snags his supplement packet out of Prowl’s hand. “I still got it!” he crows, hop-diving back into his seat, packet in hand.

Prowl stares at Jazz as he rips the packet open with his teeth and dumps it into his cube, all too aware that he threw his datapad far too early and not nearly hard enough.

“See?” Jazz says, scarred optics fixed on Prowl’s, expression odd as he stirs the supplements into his energon with a—with one of his _three total remaining_ fingers. “I’m fine.”

Concern and guilt and exhaustion and fear and exasperation and annoyance collide against _Jazz_ , against Jazz’s broad grin, Jazz’s perpetual music and deliberately posed ease, and, entirely against Prowl’s will, _relief_ washes over everything, unwinding tense cables and snapping out background worries until he is suddenly, involuntarily, _comfortable._

“Siddown, Prowler,” Jazz says, squirming to settle himself in his seat without ever truly breaking optic contact with Prowl. “I know you worry.”

Abruptly drained, trying to sort too many emotions, trying to calm all his systems that never quite seem to know how to settle around _Jazz_ , Prowl realizes he is tired and would very much like to sit. And that he is surprisingly hungry. 

Prowl takes his seat.

“Your op design, by the way,” Jazz says, “was fragging _perfect.”_ He shrugs, one-shouldered. “Slag happens, sometimes, and fragall you can do about it. S'okay, though!” He trains his better optic, his small collection of visual sensors that natively work, on Prowl and something about the way he does it makes his smile look soft and sharp at the same time. “I’m good,” he says. “You’re good. We’re good.”

He is. They are, he is, he is, and Prowl knows, Prowl knew already, but there is a vast divide somehow, between knowing that in theory, and in having Jazz here, like this, and Jazz is, as ever, very good at clearing divides. (Better, perhaps, than Prowl is at building them.)

“Drink, Prowler.” Jazz nudges Prowl’s cube with his own, at once a toast and maneuver to shove the fuel into Prowl’s slack grip. “How’s things?”

Prowl drinks. “Better, now,” Prowl says, honestly, and he accepts that he, his life, everything is different now, with Jazz.


End file.
